


Feelin' like I Sold my Soul

by alphadick



Series: six feet under. [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Canon Divergent, Dark Dean, Dark Sam, Demon Blood, Hurt/Comfort, King of Hell Sam, Knight of Hell!Dean, M/M, dean is a softie but only for sam, powers!Sam
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-21
Updated: 2017-11-21
Packaged: 2019-02-05 00:37:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,978
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12783084
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alphadick/pseuds/alphadick
Summary: Sam only became the king of hell because he wanted to save Dean's life and destroy the contract on is soul. He didn't account for Dean not wanting to be parted from him though. Now Dean's hellbent on becoming a demon and living for the rest of eternity serving Sam as his knight of hell.





	Feelin' like I Sold my Soul

**Author's Note:**

> This story was written for the lovely SPN Reverse Big Bang and inspired by Nisaki's amazing artwork!!
> 
> Here's the link: [Nisaki's Art](https://78.media.tumblr.com/11e1552c7238899c58d8a410f1136d6d/tumblr_ozq6qo79Sj1u0jlopo1_540.jpg)
> 
> Hope you like it!
> 
> [ this is canon-divergent in the sense that sam decided to become king of hell to save dean instead of dean actually dying and castiel eventually pulling him from hell ]

“How could you! How the fuck could you do this to yourself, to _me?_ ” Sam practically growls. He can feel his eyes flick to black, which seems to throw Dean for a second. It’s physically evident when Dean rights himself, pulling his shoulders back and for all intents and purposes pretending like this all doesn’t scare the absolute shit out of him. Classic Dean.

Dean doesn’t look the least bit chagrined, but Sam’s used to the thoughtless actions, the jump first-think later sort of attitude that has characterized their family for all his life. If their dad could see them now, he’d probably have put a bullet in each of their heads before they could even hope to explain themselves. “I said I’d always protect yah Sammy,” Dean mutters quietly, his jaw ticked in that way that signals his mind is made up.

Sam sees red, “the only fuckin’ reason I did any of this, why I took up the mantle as king of hell, was to **save. your. ass.** And you just fucked all that up now.” Dean’s got that pinched look on his face, like he gets when they’re wandering into a subject he doesn’t want to broach, but Sam couldn’t give a shit now. “I wanted you to live, I was supposed to die anyway, this was how it was supposed to be…” Sam loses steam near the end, the hurt look in Dean’s eyes telling him all he needs to know about how much the memory of Sam dying still tears his brother apart.

“I didn’t ask yah to save me,” Dean grunts and he won’t look Sam in the eyes suddenly, hands preoccupied with tracing the hem of his leather jacket. Sam knows he could go on, knows he could say a multitude of other things that would cut right to the core of the issue but also hurt Dean more than he truly deserves. So instead, Sam sighs and promptly takes a step back, only to trip over something and bang his head off the stone floor. A cold nose presses against his face and hand, nosing at them as he stares dazedly at the ceiling. “Hellhounds, I’ll be damned,” Dean near chuckles, and reaches out to pet the black and blue beast with flaming eyes.

“They’re massive,” Sam manages to say as he battles his way to sitting even though one of the hounds seems particularly intent on sitting on his chest. It’s a little surreal to be seeing the beasts without the aid of special glasses or being close to death. It’s even harder to imagine anything related to these two chasing after them with single-minded murderous intent. Especially when they’re both fighting over who gets to lay over Sam’s legs. Sam recognizes the moment as gone, lost for another night when they’re too plied with drink to hold their tongues.

“Guess king of hell comes with perks,” Dean surmises, entirely too entertained by the beasts that had once tried to kill them, more than once actually. Sam senses the presence before he even hears a sound, but Dean is startled nonetheless by the sudden intrusion. “Who the fuck are you?” Sam catches Dean’s aborted motion for his gun, engrained but foolish considering souls can’t bring anything to the afterlife except their memories.

“Dean,” Sam growls, pushing himself to a standing position, a fact that puts him a head or so over his two companions. “Calm down, this is Shara,” she looks mildly amused, and it somehow irks Sam more than he would like to admit. She’d appeared rather quickly after his ascent to king of hell and stuck around despite Sam’s dour attitude most days. She’d proven rather useful in understanding the landscape of his new kingdom and she was also the one that alerted him to his brother’s fall from Earth.

“Pleasure,” she practically coos and throws thick ebony locks over her shoulder seductively. Sam has learned rather quickly that there are only two currencies in hell, sex and souls, and just about everyone wants to trade one or the other for more power or position at any given time. Sam had been rebuking advances near daily from Shara since he’d stepped foot into hell.

Dean looks on placidly, a surprise considering topside Dean usually tried to bed any pretty girl that moved. Shara looks unperturbed and slinks over in her skin tight black leather, “relax pretty boy, I’m merely Sam’s…glorified assistant if you will.” The way she smiles reminds Sam of a shark and if he hadn’t already spent so much time with her he would have shivered. Dean allows himself to look more relaxed but Sam can still see the tension coiling his spine.

“And the hounds Shara?” Sam deftly changes the subject, gesturing wildly to the two beasts flanking him like body guards.

“It’s sort of like a manifestation of a demon, they’re part of you in a sense, and they do your bidding.” She snaps her fingers and another hound materializes right beside her, “this is my Haraldur. You’re going to need to name yours.”

Dean grunts out a laugh, “you should name them Cain and Abel.” Sam rolls his eyes because of course Dean thinks he’s hilarious, but the hounds seem to like it. They squirm anxiously around his legs when Sam quietly repeats the names to them.

“Interesting choice of names,” Shara monotones, eyes flicking sharply in the subdued lighting.

||

“Who was the decorator, this place is downright gladiator,” Dean says as he wanders around Sam’s rather massive quarters. Shara had led the way, regardless of the fact that she knows Sam can find his way around now, acting for all intents and purposes like a second-rate tour guide. She’d even pointed Dean to a room directly across from his and told him it was vacant if he wanted it.

Sam feels his face heat minutely, unconsciously running a hand through the hair on the back of his neck. “Actually…Shara told me when I appeared down here that when a king of hell takes over hell sort of molds to fit their image or tastes or some shit.” Dean balks for a second before bellowing laughter spills from him so harshly he’s bent in two.

“You’re fucking kidding, you picked this Greco-Roman shit? That’s ha-fuckin-larious.” Sam tries to ignore him, prefers to stalk across the room to the wet bar set into a wall and pour himself a generous helping of scotch. It’s not as if Sam personally has a say in it, hell sort of read him like a book, cover to cover and picked an adequate kingdom for him to rule over. He does however, admit that maybe he watched a little too much Spartacus.

The fire in the hearth is stoked rather large, flames licking over the large logs and Sam has yet to figure out how he can’t feel the heat any more than one would from a candle. There was enough fire around hell that Sam thought he’d be sweating like a sinner in church, but instead he’s been comfortably cool since his appearance down below. Makes him almost want to stick his hand in just to see if he can feel anything anymore. Sam settles into the couch, content to ignore Dean until he can collect himself, which doesn’t take long. Soon the man is joining him on the couch, swirling his own crystal glass of the liquid.

“So…king of hell?” Dean broaches the subject again, emerald irises pooled with fire reflecting from the hearth. The shadows play along the cut of his jaw, swallowing his features in darkness and Sam tries to swallow past the rock in his throat.

“You shouldn’t have come here,” _I’m just doing what dad always assumed I would…going bad._ The words are right there, right on the tip of his tongue but he can’t seem to spit them out despite himself. The simmering anger is nothing new but ever since he’d gotten down here it’s harder to control. Could be the demon blood, a fact that barely stirs the usual shame and self-hate it had before. He still doesn’t want to admit that too soon, doesn’t want to see the look in Dean’s eyes.

“Ain’t nothin’ left for me up there anyway,” Dean murmurs resolutely, turning his face towards the opposite side of the room and obscuring his expression.

“You’re still a fucking idiot,” Sam growls, wanting his brother to look at him, to see his eyes go black and know just how much shit they’re in this time, but Dean doesn’t look at him.

“Yeah well, you’re a bitch,” Dean monotones, the usual joking tone gone.

“Jerk." 

||

Sam has very few regrets, and the few that he has all revolve around the last important thing in his life, Dean. It’s almost ironic how easily they fit into their new roles down here. The pit molds to fit them, welcomes them with open arms and Sam feels wistful when he thinks that this is never what they were meant to be, never the roles they were meant to fill. He can’t seem to summon the usual guilt, the familiar ache of knowing he ruined a beautiful soul. It’s just not there. Sam wonders if hell is dulling him, smoothing out all those loose, messy human emotions and making him darker, singed at the edges. Figures there’s a good chance that’s the demon blood, at least a little. The truly scary thought is that this is just Sam, is Sam without having to care what everyone else thinks of him. Demon Sam.

Shara tells him he can change anything he wants, so he fucks with it all, especially the torture. Instead of the usual chains, knifes, and whips Sam opts for gladiator style combat day after day without end. The losers trussed up in hooks and left with their entrails out for the night before it starts all over again the next day. It suits Sam’s tastes better. He takes particular joy in beginning the fights each day, watching the scum of hell fight for even a moment’s rest from the torture. A dark, savage part of Sam enjoys the desperation that clogs the arena, feeds on it almost. It’s better for business, frees more demons for this infamous army of hell that he’s supposed to be commanding and what not.

There’s surprisingly a lot of contract reading, more than Sam ever would have expected, but he finds himself skimming through contract after contract that demons bring him. It’s jarring to realize that each piece of paper represents a soul, some stupid or tricked, even more are desperate. Sam can almost smell it on the paper, desperation its own sort of scent that Sam’s newly strengthened demon senses seem to be honed into.

Sam’s pulled from his musings by the doors to his office being thrown open with a smack. Dean strides in, bow legs working him across the carpet covered stone floor rather quickly. “Hey Sammy,” the man smirks, half his mouth tilting up in that shit-eating grin of his. “How’s life as the _king of hell_?” His voice is teasing when he says Sam’s title, and it merely prompts Sam’s typical response of eye rolling. He throws himself into the plush chair that sits across from his desk, one leg thrown over the arm casually. Sam notes the dissonance he should be feeling at this moment, how odd it should feel to see Dean so casually wrapped in the pit of hell, but instead his eyes linger on absence of the man’s shirt. Honestly, what in the hell is he wearing?

Dean had opted for a new wardrobe since his willing buy into hell and Sam isn’t sure whether the man’s intentionally trying to make him go mad, or if Dean’s simply taking this role a little too seriously. Currently sprawled in the chair, shirtless and wrapped in leather pants so sinfully tight that it has Sam hot enough he finally feels like he deserves to be in hell. “Where’s your crown?” Dean asks rather serious, at odds with his casual posture, which screams indifference.

“You’re joking, I’m not wearing a crown,” Sam balks, looks anywhere but at Dean, finally settling on the two ginormous hellhounds lounging at his feet. Cain and Abel never wander too far from his side unless ordered to do so, and despite Dean’s usual attitude towards dogs he’s rather taken by the beasts. As if sensing his thoughts Cain peeks up at him, eyes like burning embers as they stare into his soul. The hound stands, moving to nudge his exceptionally large head under Sam’s arm.

Dean grunts, disgruntled with Sam’s response apparently but doesn’t say much else. “So,” Dean pauses so long it actually draws Sam’s stare up, “how’s this whole demon thing work?” Dean vaguely gestures at himself, the upstroke of his hand settling around his eye area and Sam balks.

“You’re not a demon Dean, you’re merely a soul trapped down here,” Sam growls vehemently. _Fuckin’ ridiculous idiot, fuckin kidding me—_ Sam can’t believe him.

Dean sort of half shrugs, an aborted motion between agreeing and not wanting to drop the subject which just further inflames Sam’s temper. “ _You are not a demon_.”

||

Shara finds him the next day when he’s watching the morning’s gladiator fights, eyes charcoal black as the souls tear each other apart. Some lower level demon, _Damian? Derek?_ , is standing next to his chair arm outstretched and stained red much like Sam’s mouth.  “You should know Dean’s been poking around with other demons,” he’s sure she hears the snap his neck makes as it whips towards her. _Damian_ flits out, here one second and gone the next and Sam appreciates his ability to pick up on the mood.

“Who the fuck is he talking to?” He hears rather than sees the vase whip against the wall with his fury, but it doesn’t make either of them flinch.

“Some lower level shits, pencil pushers mostly, but he’s working his way up the scale.” She’s entirely too calm about this considering Sam gave her an express order to make sure Dean didn’t talk to any demons, didn’t associate with a single one. The glare he sends her must strike the point home because she looks a trifle more contrite before she speaks next, “I made sure whoever he talked to never said anything of importance.”

He’s still seething, but at least it’s lessened now. The king rubs at his mouth absently, smearing the blood into nothingness on his skin. Sam regards the bloody pit below him once more before flitting from the room and landing directly in Dean’s path. He’s looking at something over his shoulder and doesn’t realize Sam is even there until he runs right into the man. “Holy shit, Sammy what the hell,” he grumbles, rubbing his sore forehead and taking a step back so he can look at his brother properly.

“What have you been doing?” Sam sets straight to the point and he can see the hackles on Dean rise at the insinuation.

“What do you mean what the fuck have I been doing?” He growls back, the tick in his jaw telling Sam he’s been caught out. His brother never was the best liar, at least not to him.

“I mean what the fuck have you been doing talking to demons?” And Sam never thought he’d be on a train of conversation like this, especially with his brother but here they are.

Dean looks almost smug, “so it’s been Shara tailing me all day?” It’s infuriating that Dean can still make him feel like a little kid. He’s king of hell damnit, not that Dean seems to care.

His older brother sobers suddenly, smug grin gone, “I know Sammy, I know that you must be drinking someone’s blood around here.” It makes him twitchy with a sudden urge to wipe his mouth like there might still be flecks of dried demon blood there, but he knows there isn’t any. He steels himself but Dean just stands there, loose-limbed and confident in his assumption. Well, he was going to find out sooner or later.

“Yeah? So, what?” Sam growls, feeling his eyes flick to black and the demon so close to the surface. He always feels this way right after a feed, less Sam and more hell with every drop that crosses his tongue.

Dean looks down, shielding his eyes with those ridiculously long lashes of his, “doesn’t have to be that way,” and cants his head a bit to the side so that his pale throat glimmers in the faded light of the corridor. Torchlight bounces off his skin and scatters over the freckles that begin at the base of his neck and dust over his shoulders. Today’s outfit is leather pants paired with a spiked vest of some sort and honestly, Sam’s starting to wonder where Dean is getting these clothes because he looks more hardcore BDSM than withering demon…Sam freezes, brain catching up finally and he splutters. King of hell, Sam, fucking chokes on his own tongue in his haste to hop back like he’s been stung. His older brother is standing there resolutely, the only hint he’s even the least bit embarrassed is the slight tinge to his ears that doesn’t spread past the top of his neck, but it’s there.

Sam’s disbelief gives way to rage and he lunges forward, fingers grabbing ruthlessly at his brother’s jaw and yanking his head up so that they lock eyes. “Shut the fuck up, you don’t know anything…” He stares at him, eyes coal black and endless in their depths. He gives Dean credit for looking completely unafraid, not reacting to his brother finally displaying the animal he’s always been. “—wouldn’t work anyway, you’re just a _soul_.” Sam spits the words, spits them because somewhere, somepart of demon Sam rails at Dean’s words. Screams _taketaketake_ until there’s nothing left, until Dean is completely his. Because here he can have it all.

Sam flings himself back, away from the closeness of his brother’s body and takes stock of his rapidly beating heart, “just stop, stop talking to demons. It’s for your own good.” He stalks off, the torturous roaring of Dean’s blood in his veins haunting him with every step he takes further away.

He’s a monster, that’s it. Sam finds it fitting, King of Hell and all, but now Dean’s trapped down here with him. No escape for eternity. Eternity with satan himself.

Sam feels Dean’s eyes the whole time he retreats, two pinpoints of heat that take hours to go out.

||

Dean can feel the eyes on him, but he pretends not to realize as he turns another corner in this maze of a castle. Fuckin’ Shara, tailing him again. He’s going to have to lose her, and soon. By his estimation she’s about ten steps behind him, a shadow really around every corner. He times it right, turns at the end of a corridor and then silently races down to the next turn and books to the opposite side and breaks through into a room at the end of the hall. Dean closes it behind him, listening silently for her steps but they never come. Good, she’ll be occupied trying to find him long enough that he can sneak down to the barracks.

It’s out back, behind the castle—fortress—where rows upon rows of housing is situated for demons of all ranks to live and spend time when not up top dealing contracts and fucking over the human population. He’d found it pretty quickly after arriving, something from his engrained hunter days telling him to case the joint. When he’d first arrived, it had made his hair stand on end to know that so many demons lived so close, but now…well, Sam’s practically pure demon now, fancy title and all. Besides, Dean has questions and he is sure as hell going to get answers one way or another.

He lets himself into the biggest structure, correctly assuming it’s some sort of common area and hangs back to survey the action for a second. It’s quite literally a second because that’s all it takes for the demons to take a whiff of human soul in the room. Then they’re all staring at him, black-eyed and curious. “What’s it take to get a drink around here?" 

||

Most of the demons ignore Dean but one—Jacob, a particularly _un_ -demon name if anyone were to ask Dean—in particular at least hears him out and tells him that the others are scared to talk to him because he’s the king’s brother. Especially since there’s a specific order out telling them not to talk to Dean in the slightest. Dean admires the guy’s nonchalance, even if a part of him rankles because the demon’s disobeying his brother. It takes some needling but Dean eventually parses out that there are two separate ways to turn his soul black down here: torture—and that isn’t really a surprise—and drinking demon blood. It’s a pretty easy decision for Dean to make, and that’s really how it starts.

Once a day he sneaks away to meet Jacob in his quarters where he gets his serving of demon-steroids and he can honestly feel it. Feel the demon blood pumping through him, turning him a little darker every day. He counts it as a win one day when he flicks his hand absently and a glass flies off the surface onto the floor. It’s small, but it’s progress. The black of his pupil grows with each day, swallowing the green of his iris whole.

Maybe it’s because Sam has been busy dealing with learning how to run Hell from the ground up, he’s got a lot of duties and Dean is only one small part of his responsibilities, but regardless Dean’s surprised how long he’s gotten away with this.

It’s almost ridiculous how easy it is to escape from Shara now, his increased sense helping him slip away practically unnoticed most times. It gets kind of addicting, all that power he feels pulsing under his skin, just right there and ripe for the taking. Dean dreams about it, dreams about biting into flesh and sucking as red honeyed nectar flows across his tongue. The victims morph, beginning as nameless blurred faces before resolutely forming into a familiar long and lean body. The craving doesn’t seem to be sated with more blood, but Dean sure tries.

Dean focuses on the arm in his grasp, one hand pinning the blond man to the floor roughly and the other creating a bracelet of fingers around the man’s thick wrist. He had started by taking a mouthful or so a day, all he could handle of the shit, but now…Now Dean can feel the thrumming need in his system, the call for _more more more_. He dives in, mouth forming a suction of pressure on Jacob’s arm so that no drop can escape as he roguishly bites down. Jacob grunts, scrabbles against the floor but ultimately goes still under the power of Dean. He can’t stop drinking, each sip a sort of balm against the ridiculous unquiet of the monster unleashed inside him.

Dean can hear Jacob yelling at him to stop, that he’s had enough, but Dean ignores him. His eyes are black, fully for the first time, and unwavering on their target. He’s sure he could drain Jacob dry, suck out every last drop and leave the demon a husk on the floor, no true loss down here, just survival of the fittest.

A hand wraps around his throat and suddenly he’s flying across the room into a wall. The plaster cracks under his form but he barely feels the impact through the blind intensity of his rage. Whoever interrupted him is going to pay… ”Dean, what the actual fuck?” Sam growls, more demon than brother right now, fearsome in his power. “I leave you alone for a few weeks and you get addicted to demon blood? Who’s the fucking hypocrite now?” The king of hell is pissed and when Dean glances over Jacob’s made himself scarce and disappeared hopefully to the furthest reaches of hell.

The demon blood must be fucking with his emotions because all Dean can feel is red hot rage at being interrupted and unceremoniously thrown across the room. He charges at Sam, hitting him mid stomach and rolling them over onto the ground. “Y’know what they say? Can’t beat ‘em, join ‘em,” Dean bites back, blocking a well-aimed punch to the side of his head and countering with a knee to the gut. Sam barely flinches against a move which would have put him down before all this happened.

It’s a little disappointing when his little brother flips them unceremoniously and pins Dean to the ground rather easily. Dean would bet anything that it’s the demon powers helping Sam. A little more juicing and Dean might be right there with him. He expects to get yelled at, to be told off and possibly beat to within an inch of his life (can souls get beat within an inch of their life?), but he really doesn’t expect Sam’s face to crumple like a kicked puppy.

“Dean how could you do this? How could you tarnish your soul like this?” He sounds deeply wounded, hollow in that way that rips Dean to the core. It reminds him of their talks in baby, when Sam’s quiet and thoughtful and Dean’s got his wall’s down a little, enough for him to choke out a sentimental line or two for Sam’s bleeding heart. It’s the most Dean has recognized old Sam since he got here, since he saw Sam with his black eyes and demon soul.

“Sammy,” Dean near whispers, trying to catch his brother’s eyes from underneath that shaggy-fringe of his. “You’re the only family I have left, and if that means we’re demons now…well, that’s alright with me.” It’s weird to finally say what he’s been thinking for weeks. Almost feels a little crazy to finally say out loud that Dean Winchester, of the hunting Winchesters, is okay with becoming the thing he hates. It sort of deflates Sam, takes the air out of him like a balloon and Dean hasn’t seen him this broken since—since Jess.

“But you had a chance, had a chance to live up there and give this all up and not be a Winchester anymore. Just be Dean, you could have lived…” Sam’s leaning on him rather heavily. He blankets his older brother solidly but loosens his grip pinning Dean to the ground. The fight has obviously left him.

“That ain’t a life Sammy. Knowin’ you’re down here stuck in this life because you had to fix my fuck-up. Nah, that ain’t me. You need someone to look after you,” he brings a hand up to lightly cuff his brother. Pairs it with a smirk that doesn’t quite reach his eyes but neither of them mention it. “ _Let me help you…please Sammy,_ ” he practically pleads, the words low and soft in the silence. His breath puffs across the bridge of Sam’s nose, warm and humid and real. It drives Sam wild to feel it. “ _Let me be your right hand, I can handle it._ ” The words are sickening in their sweetness, tantalizing in the promises that whirl through Sam’s mind. Left up to his imagination Sam could run away with his thoughts.

Sam hesitates, staring down at his big brother, innocent and good. Currently untarnished, but he’s promising so much to Sam. Is promising his soul for Sam’s using, and that’s the deepest sin Sam has ever wished for.

Dean can see the moment Sam cracks, the wrinkle on his forehead deepening even as the creases around his mouth lessen. It makes the man smirk softly, even as he feels the dried blood cracking against his lips. The sight pulls Sam’s gaze, eyes traveling the maroon flecks that decorate his older brother’s mouth. It’s ridiculous to feel jealous that some random demon’s blood is pumping through his veins but Sam can’t help the spike of anger that rips through his chest. “You wanna be a demon that bad, eh?” He grunts, shifting his weight to his left arm and dragging his right arm up to press delicately against Dean’s mouth. “No better source than the king of hell.”

Dean looks unsure for a moment, but he’s betrayed by his eyes going black at the mere mention of the idea. Sam remembers the blood lust, remembers the need to sate the monster inside him but never quite being able to fulfill the deepest need inside him. He bites down, hard enough to break the skin but it’s so delicate Sam’s not sure it should have been able to draw blood. The first few sips are slow, measured and with Dean’s eyes locked on his the whole time. Then it seems as if he starts to taste it, really taste the power thrumming through his veins and Dean loses it rather quickly. Dean rips off his arm, mouth smeared with the crimson liquid and half crazed. Sam starts lightly when Dean latches onto his neck, clumsy, needy lips smearing across his clavicle and the base of his neck. When Dean bites down this time the feeling goes straight to Sam’s dick, the pain-pleasure of it like a spark of electricity straight to the balls.

His brother starts rutting against him, black swallowed eyes showing none of the emotion Sam is sure is there. It’s all too much, Sam stifles a grunt, Dean’s suddenly full dick nudging against Sam’s equally hard one. And just when exactly did he get so hard? Sam feels the shame like a small presence in the back of his mind. Inconsequential at the moment, especially with the pleasure currently coursing through his system. He hasn’t rubbed one off through his clothing since early high school, and it sure as hell didn’t feel this good.

Dean makes this animalistic groan that rockets right through Sam’s shoulder and he screws his eyes shut as his toes start to curl. It’s all too much, the delicious slide of their clothed dicks together and the near furnace heat of Dean against him. He’s lost. His brother bites down a little harder, some more blood welling from the wound and Sam practically mewls as he feels his host release coat the inside of his jeans. Dean sort of groans against him, gives a last shaky thrust and follows Sam down. It’s more jarring than it should be and has Sam scrambling backwards as far away from his older brother as he can get. He can’t believe he’s just done that, given into the urges that have haunted him for years. Dean looks fucked out, black receding to only having swallowed his irises, leaving his expression decidedly blank. His mouth is smeared with blood—Sam’s blood—a drip of it curling down his chin and pooling until it drops off onto Dean’s bare chest.

It’s too much. Sam flits out, escaping to the solitude of his quarters where no one can bother him unless he wishes for it. He flips the table, instantly regretting the rather childish outburst but feeling a slight bit better after releasing his anger. Sam can’t believe after all these years he betrayed his promise of never telling his brother about his feelings. He’d moved on, fallen in love with Jess and then Ruby…but Dean was always there. Even moving to Stanford hadn’t gotten him away from his big brother. Like a shadow that always appeared at the most inopportune times—specifically when Sam could finally feel himself moving on.

He sinks into the plush wing-back chair near the fire and huffs out a soft laugh. Sam’s ruined it all and Dean’s stuck down here with his incestuous brother for all eternity. Punishment indeed. At least he won’t be demon for long, to make the process stick Dean has to torture a human soul, any soul, and he’d be demon for good. As it is, Sam’s king of hell power-boost will probably last a few weeks or so. He’ll just have to avoid his brother for the rest of forever. Simple.

Sam sighs heavily and moves to the wet bar for a stiff drink—correction quite a few stiff drinks.

||

Dean’s a little peeved that he can’t seem to ever find Sam, it’s like the man has a warning system that alerts him to Dean’s presence and he makes himself scarce. There’s only so much a man can take before he busts after all. Anger comes easily with the demon blood, as if amplifying it and Dean notices his lack of control when he happens to hear some demon’s questioning Sam’s leadership and he snaps. It sort of gets around and the amount of people that call him ‘Sam’s bitch’ when they think he can’t hear them, decreases significantly. It could also have something to do with Dean’s acquisition of control over the armies.

It’s a rather small accident that comes about from Dean randomly happening by during a training exercise and noticing some holes in their fighting style. Shit that hunters would take advantage of and Dean suddenly realizes that as an ex-hunter he can provide valuable insight. The demons seem skeptical but Dean’s power is unmatched by anyone but Sam whose blood provided the juice.

He realizes he should feel bad for training the demons how to break the traps they tend to wind up in, considering not so long ago he was a hunter himself, but the demon blood gives him no qualms helping the ‘enemy’. Besides, this all helps cement Sam’s reign as king of hell and if more than a few people start calling him Sam’s knight well. Dean will take up the mantle, for Sam he’d do just about anything.

“If you fling him a little harder he’ll knock himself out on the wall,” Dean yells, watching various mock fights happen throughout the partially enclosed yard. He moves his hand as if to the flick said demon against the wall himself and the man merely slides five feet to the right with a questioning stare. Dean’s blood boils and he waves them off to take a break before flitting directly into the throne room where Sam’s attending some business with different low-level demons. The scene is rather befitting of a medieval movie, the king tending to his poorer subjects and listening to their squabbles. Dean can see the exact moment that Sam realizes he’s in the room because he tenses visibly. Most people might not be able to recognize the cause but Dean’s known Sam his whole life. That the face of prey that’s been caught. Dean wants to throw one of the elaborate tables against the wall but already he can feel the depletion of his power, only a light thrill through his veins where it was once a throbbing pressure waiting to be used.

He storms up to the throne, taking his spot off to the right of Sam with a toothy grin. He looks more shark than human or demon combined. The demons currently waiting to speak to Sam look shaken. Word’s gotten around and Dean’s nickname of Sam’s mad-dog is spreading. He’s harsh, preferring to teach lessons with blood and pain than words. “King’s done for today I’m afraid, knight business, y’know…” Dean grunts, waving them off when they stand there deliberating on whether or not to listen. After a pause Sam nods resolutely, the demon’s flitting out of sight and leaving them alone in the giant hall.

“What’s this about a knight? Pretty sure I hadn’t appointed one.” Sam grumbles, hand clasped rather firmly around a glass of some amber liquid like it might be the only thing keeping him here.

“Fuck off, you were doing nothing with your army, I’m getting them ready to wreak _havoc_ ,’ Dean growls fierily. Sam rises from his throne and wanders to the table to the left with a myriad of alcohols on it. He hasn’t once looked at Dean and it’s grating on him. “Why the fuck are my powers fading?” He demands, wishing more than anything he could use even a bit of power to spin Sam towards him.

“You’re not a full demon Dean, never will be if I have anything to say about it,” Sam replies haughtily. He doesn’t even see it coming as Dean launches himself at his brother and takes him down forcefully. The glass in his hand goes flying and smashes some ten feet away across the stone flooring. They land harshly, Sam’s cheek dug into the slate floor and Dean’s knee in his back.

“Fuck you, you’ve been avoiding me for weeks, I was just doing what I thought was best. I’m going to be down here forever, why not let me have this?” Dean actually seems furious, its makes something sick and wicked slither through Sam’s stomach and he tries not to identify it too much. Just because they’re in hell and all their typical deepest darkest secrets don’t seem too bad anymore doesn’t mean Sam’s ready to tell his brother he’s always been in love with him. He struggles in hopes that he can get away from the hot heavy weight of Dean, but no dice. Instead his older brother turns him softly, his hands rather light considering their earlier treatment. On his back Sam can’t look anywhere but at Dean’s face, freckled and lightly tan because that’s how Dean died.

Dean looks soft for a moment, his emerald eyes like two pools of swirling liquid that draw Sam in. The man cards his hands through Sam’s hair, tender and soft like Dean would do when Sam was crying about mom, crying about dad being gone so long, crying about anything really. He treats Sam like he’s delicate and takes a minute or so just to smooth back his baby brother’s hair to get a good look at his face. When he starts talking it’s so low Sam can barely hear it at first, but then it’s there, “ _—just let me help, let me stay with you forever, beside you, com’on, don’t push me away now._ ” Dean just sort of leans down and plants his lips on Sam’s, at first taking his sweet time just exploring each other’s lips before drawing back to look at Sam. He’s in shock, unbelieving that Dean just kissed him, unprompted and unfamilial. And then Sam can’t help himself and he pulls Dean down for more, and Dean kisses him like he’s trying to take everything from Sam and keep the man inside himself forever, protected.

Sam bites at Dean’s bottom lip and pulls, grunts something indecipherable but Dean seems to understand they need less clothing. It’s fumbled and messy and Sam almost kicks Dean in the chin when he tries to throw off his jeans but Dean merely chuckles and grabs the offending foot and kisses the inside of Sam’s calf delicately. He nips up the leg and takes extra time to tease the slice of skin between Sam’s straining dick and his hip. It drives him wild and how Dean knows this fact is beyond him but his brother makes damn sure to mark the unmarred skin with all his brands. Sam will be black and blue tomorrow. He pulls the man up for another kiss, explores his mouth for answers with his tongue and finds none. Instead Dean pulls back panting for air.

“Bed?” He grunts, voice an absolute wreck and music to Sam’s ears.

“Yeah-yes, jesus,” Sam practically moans and flits them directly into his bed in his king quarters. They crash against plush sheets and Sam’s never been more thankful to be off the floor in his life. Now his back is cradled on Egyptian cotton with Dean’s body pressed against his like a long-hot line. Dean seems so much calmer, not losing it like Sam who’s practically writhing on the bed under him. He lightly traces his tongue over the fading red mark of where his teeth had latched onto his younger brother weeks ago now, the whisper of pain sending a jolt through Sam and making his dick twitch.

Dean grins wolfishly, “yah want me to help you with that Sammy?”

“Shut the fuck up Dean,” Sam growls, lightly punching his brother’s shoulder and bucking his hips up against Dean’s own straining erection. He’s satisfied to wring a groan out of the man, his eyes slipping shut for a second as his hips hump the air in chase of more pleasure.

“Tell me whatcha want Sammy,” Dean slurs lightly, eyes half-lidded and filled with lust.

“Anything, please…” He grunts, hands coming to sink down Dean’s belly and wrap around the thick length greeting him between his brother’s legs. Dean leans down to kiss him again, licking into his mouth as he uses his own hand to wrap around both their cocks and jerk them together.

“This good?” Dean murmurs, right into his mouth and Sam can only nod his response as he waits for more kisses. The hot heat of Dean’s hand and his dick pressed against his is so much better than when they rubbed off against each other with their clothes still on. So so, much better. His brother twists his hand in such a way, fingers catching on the sensitive bundle of nerves under the head of his cock and Sam starts trembling. “Lemme do something Sammy, feel so good,” it’s soft and whispered right into his ear and he feels his dick spurt precome just at the sound of his brother’s voice. It’s gravel-rough and sex laced. Jesus it’s perfect.

Dean softly rolls him over, pulling his hips up and pushing his thighs together. His brother’s cock pushes between the vice of his thighs and starts stroking back and forth simulating the act of sex and rubbing a hot, wet line along the bottom of his cock and balls. On a particularly deep stroke Dean pulls almost all the way out and stabs right back against Sam’s entrance. He spasms, the tight ring of muscles working to allow the intrusion but Dean slides right on down and back through the crevice between Sam’s thighs.

It’s almost a shock when a wet finger starts probing around the sensitive spot, Dean’s dick still stroking through the vice of his thighs. Dean makes this choked off sound in his throat, the first instance of him showing just how undone he is after all. “Fuck Sammy, should see yourself…fuck.” He pushes in lightly, sinking his index finger into the first knuckle and twisting around a bit as he continues stroking between Sam’s thighs. Sam can’t stop trembling, his toes curling at odds and dick steadily leaking into the sheets. Dean surprises him by pushing the digit the full way in and curling and Sam sees sparks. He stiffens, abs convulsing and suddenly he explodes, thrusting himself back on Dean’s finger and dick between his legs. His older brother sounds lost, sensitively stroking the inside of his little brother’s entrance and wildly thrusting between his thighs. Sam manages to control the shaking of his limbs enough to tighten the clutch of his thighs and Dean stutters his rhythm rather spectacularly and then cums hot and hard between Sam’s shivering thighs. The heat of it drips down his skin, mixing with the sweat already there and then sinking into the sheets to be soaked up. “Holy shit,” Dean grunts and rolls off to the side, the sudden absence of his finger is a foreign feeling within Sam, one he tries to not think too hard about. 

Sam flip flops his head so that he’s looking at Dean, enjoying the play of light across the man’s beautiful face. His freckles standing out in contrast to his lighter skin like speckles of paint. He can’t believe he’s ruined his brother so spectacularly. Tarnished his soul beyond repair because there’s definitely no coming back from any of this—“Sammy, I can feel that big ole head of yours working away at this, wearing it thin. Don’t. Sometimes shit just happens, and sometimes shit just fits together. Don’t think too much into it, because we both want it and that’s all that matters.” It’s weird to think that something Sam has been struggling with most of his life can be summed up so easily into those few short sentences. Leave it to Dean to be able to surmise the issue and parse it out so easily. For Dean, everything is black and white and especially in this case, Sam might be able to take this advice. “Commere,” Dean murmurs, pulling Sam against him resolutely.

||

It doesn’t change them much, just little things here and there, Dean stops sleeping in his room and moves into Sam’s permanently. Dean’s a lot more handsy than he was before, loving the way he can make Sam squirm by teasing him mercilessly with his words, his hands, and his body. It doesn’t take long for Dean to go full demon, tortures the soul of some serial child molester because it made Sam feel better about ruining Dean for life. Regardless of the reasoning, Dean can’t deny it felt good to let out his anger on the man.

Dean nuzzles into the soft downy hairs at Sam’s neck, distracting the man yet again from the pile of contracts he’s supposed to be reading. “Dean stop,” He growls, but doesn’t move away from Dean’s lap. It’s rather childish Sam had thought at first, but there’s nothing more relaxing than Dean’s hands wandering aimlessly over his body in their endless search. Dean merely grunts in response and hooks his chin over his little brother’s shoulder. He can’t help the slide of his palms up his lover’s legs, Sammy having gotten out of bed with nothing but some tight briefs on. It’s getting him hot, his erection pushing insistently into the mound of Sam’s ass. “I’m serious Dean,” Sam tries to sound mad but Dean can pick out the chuckle in his voice from anywhere.

He sits back with a huff, lounging in the large wingback chair and studying his boy’s features. Dean drags a hand through that hair he loves so much and smirks. “Be right back,” he chuckles and imagines the indignant squawk Sam must give as he flits from the room and drops Sam less than a foot onto the chair with his sudden absence.

Dean’s back in the next instant, half way across the room and smiling a little too wide for Sam to not be suspicious. “What have you done?” Sam narrows his eyes suspiciously.

“Forgot about this little gift I made you a while ago. Was meant to give it to you for your birthday but since you were avoiding me…now will have to do.” Dean marches forward to card his hands through Sam’s tawny locks one more time before grabbing something from behind his back and rather unceremoniously placing the object on Sam’s head. “Fit for a king,” Dean jokes, stepping back to admire his handiwork.

Sam practically jumps up, heading over to the mirror in the corner of the room for a better look. A delicate gold circlet is carefully balanced on his head, the gold glints in the light of the fires around the room and matches the delicate nature of the jewelry that was replicated to match the flames. Dean comes up behind him and fixes a few errant strands of hair, the look in his eyes entirely too soft for someone who’s been nicknamed The King of Hell’s Mad Dog.

“Now you’re really the king.”

**Author's Note:**

> This is probably going to be apart of a series because I already have a second part planned where there is more angst and other people meddling with the boys, but that will probably be a bit from now before it's all written out.
> 
> Hope you enjoyed it!


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